


Look After You

by PrettyThief



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Singing, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-12-14 01:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21007070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyThief/pseuds/PrettyThief
Summary: “Someday you must sing for me.” Jaime catches Brienne singing on three different occasions. First installment immediately follows A Dance with Dragons.





	1. Podrick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote in the summary from Catelyn VI, _A Clash of Kings_. Title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iYOOuJLuaY). No beta, so all mistakes are my own.

Jaime Lannister had certainly been a fool for the better part of his thirty-three years, but it was not something he was going to let the Maid of Tarth in on, no matter how much she tried to play him for one. She had come to him at Pennytree, her body injured but her eyes set with a fiery determination. “_A day’s ride_,” she had promised him of Sansa Stark. A lie, he had known before his feet had even left the ground. He suspected the wench had never told a proper lie, much less gotten away with one.

From anyone else, Jaime might have been angry. But as they settled into camp on the fourth evening of their journey, he was only curious.

“How many days did you say we were to ride?” he asked conversationally, sparking a rock over a neatly arranged stack of old tree branches.

Jaime could see her out of his periphery as he fanned the fledgling flame with his golden hand. She slowed to a standstill at adjusting her bedroll. He could nearly see the wheels turning in her head as she no doubt concocted more stories for him.

“We should arrive there on the morrow.”

“And where is _there_ again?” He straightened, placing his hand on his hip and putting forth his best effort at maintaining a straight face.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his only briefly, but she blushed and looked away, retraining her focus on smoothing the wrinkles from her pallet. “I do not know the name of the place. Only how to … how to get there.” Her voice faltered somewhat as she sat, wincing.

The small smile he had allowed himself slid from his face. “Brienne,” he said solemnly, taking a step toward the lean-to canopy she sat beneath. “Are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

She only nodded, closing her eyes, but he saw how her fingers were gingerly pressed to her ribcage. He had not gotten anything else out of her, no matter how many times he had asked the question. She would not even allow him to help change her bandages or readjust the splint she wore wrapped tight against one arm.

Jaime watched her intently, firelight dancing on her pale skin, reddening the wounds of her face and neck. _She will not so much as look at me, the stubborn woman. What have I gotten her into?_ He scowled at her after a moment and made for his horse, tied to a tall, golden-leafed tree at the edge of the little clearing they had set up camp in.

He said nothing as he returned to stand over her, unwrapping a linen filled with salt pork. Then, “here. You have to eat.”

“I have my own food.”

“You have bread.”

“I’m _fine_, Jaime.”

He laughed at that, no more than a mirthless bark. “You don’t have to tell me what has happened to you. I will not ask again. But if you think that I have the time or inclination to return your bones to your lord father upon your death of starvation, you and he will both be disappointed. _Eat this._” Jaime shoved the parcel of meat into her hand and walked away to climb hastily into his own bedroll. He glowered at the lightly falling snowflakes melting around the fire until he could hear her breathing slow into a gentler pattern, and sleep overtook them both.

It was twilight by the time Brienne slowed her horse the next day, just beyond the Red Fork. The air was cooler than it had been yet, but pleasantly smoky with the scent of dying campfires. And indeed, when Jaime glanced around he could see a cave set against the backdrop of the area with a large, still-smoldering pit not far from its mouth. Square splotches of mud littered with hay and the remnants of food covered the ground where there was not brittle grass or fallen leaves. The land had been only recently occupied.

“Who was here?”

Brienne fidgeted nervously in her saddle. Her face was pale, her eyes tired. They had ridden with too much haste, Jaime knew, but she was as stubborn as an auroch when her mind was set. It took her a long while to glance over at him, and Jaime wondered when last it had been that she had so deliberately met his gaze. He saw unmasked guilt in her guileless blue eyes.

“The Brotherhood Without Banners.”

A wave of fury washed over him that he could only barely prevent dripping from every word he spoke. “The _Brotherhood_? And you didn’t think to tell me? ‘Sansa Stark is a day’s ride from here.’ What was that about?”

“I … had a plan. You must understand. They would have killed us all.” Her voice was small and hopeless as she looked down at the reins in her too-large hands. He almost regretted his harsh tone.

“And so they may still!” He spoke much more loudly than he had meant to, he realized. _What was she thinking? What is going on?_ Her poorly attempted lies had amused him on the road, but no longer now that he had the truth of it. And he had thought himself so very clever for figuring out her dishonesty. _I truly am a fool_.

But Jaime spoke none of the demands that raced through his mind, nor did he give in to the anger that boiled in the very core of him.

Instead, much more softly, "Did they do this to you?” He reached out his left hand, their horses just close enough for him to graze his fingertips near the bruised and raw skin along her neck. He had heard tale of the sort of justice the Brotherhood had been serving.

Brienne did not answer him, only hung her head, leaning away from him just enough to avoid his touch.

A biting wind kicked up the golden leaves littering the ground around them, tangling Jaime’s curls as his eyes burned into her, desperate for answers. "Why? Why you?”

She was saved from having to answer by rustling in the brush line just ahead of them. Jaime’s hand instinctively went to the pommel of his sword, and he briefly felt relieved that this time, the reaction had come from the arm with a hand actually attached. A chestnut-haired man peered warily from the bramble, then cautiously stepped out, stumbling over a protruding root on his way. His clothes were bloodied and muddy, his face badly beaten. Around his neck he wore a raw, red circle of blistered flesh to match Brienne’s.

The man croaked out a sound that might have been her name, coughed violently, and tried again, one hand going to his knee. “Brienne!” he managed. “You should not have returned.”

She dismounted quicker than Jaime might have thought her capable. But as he threw himself off his own horse, he noticed how her face contorted in pain with every movement.

“Ser Hyle,” she said, walking up to the man and placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

This man, this Hyle, straightened, seeming to not register that Jaime was there at all. “They’re gone. They’ve just… They’ve left,” he gasped, winded.

Jaime watched from beside their horses, reins in hand, as Brienne’s face fell into confusion. “They’ve left?” she said thickly. “What do you mean they’ve left?”

Hyle hesitated. “There’s to be a wedding.” He coughed only once this time, cleared his throat. “Between a Frey and some Lannister.” Only then did the man’s contemptuous gaze fall on Jaime, distaste evident even through purple and swollen eyes.

Through either years of practice or innate familial talent, Jaime found it required no effort to school his features into cool disregard by way of reply. His head, though, was spinning with news that felt like blows upon blows. _Daven. Genna._

“Seems the Stone Bitch found a sweeter prize than this one.” Hyle jerked his head in Jaime’s direction.

“How far ahead are they?” Brienne said at once, seeming to sense the growing annoyance Jaime was feeling toward this well-beaten man, perhaps knew he had every reason to let loose every manner of wrath upon her for bringing him to this place so unaware. _Perhaps the Brotherhood only sought my good company_. The thought nearly made him smile.

“They rode east for Riverrun last evenfall. But I would caution you… They’re sure to have eyes on this place.” He frowned and faltered when he spoke again. “My lady. Brienne…”

She had noticed. “Pod.” Even her whisper, even in as much pain as she must have been in, the Maid of Tarth’s voice was firm and certain. “Where is Podrick?”

She turned her head to glance at Jaime, her broad face painted with a fear and desperation he had scarcely seen on her. Thought it made his stomach clench in a peculiar sort of way, Jaime had nothing to offer her but a frown. He did not know this Podrick. He did wonder who he might be to her, much as he was curious about _Ser Hyle_ and the familiar way they spoke with one another.

“He is not well,” said Ser Hyle in little more than a rasp. “Boys were not meant for the noose. I didn’t think he could be moved… and they just _left_…”

“Where is he?” She sounded stronger in that moment, straight of spine and towering.

“The cave, but—”

Brienne was striding then—long, determined steps in the direction Hyle had come from.

Jaime met the other man’s gaze in defiant challenge, his eyes narrowed and his mouth a sharp, hard line. The sinking sun set the angles of his face ablaze, burning his golden locks like waves of flame and shining from his eyes like verdant infernos. The look was usually enough for most men he encountered, and he found this one to be no different.

All Hyle could say with his voice soft but determined was, “This is on you. She would have died, would have taken us all with her, for _you_.”

Jaime would not let his confusion at the situation he had found himself in show. Instead he pressed the reins into one of Hyle’s hands, who grumbled something about finding food, and Jaime followed after her.

Brienne was already on her knees next to a boy not much bigger than Tommen. A single lantern hung on the cave wall, casting the boy’s face in hues of orange that did nothing to mask the color of grave illness. It was a sight Jaime had seen more often that he cared to count, on one battlefield or another. From the grim look on Brienne’s face, he knew she understood, too.

“Pod,” she was saying gently, a hand smoothing dark hair from his damp, pallid forehead. She had not looked up when Jaime had stepped into the opening of the cave, so he stood there, uncertain of the dynamic before him and hesitant to involve himself.

The boy had enough strength in him still to raise his eyes up to hers. She smiled then, though tears rolled silently over her cheeks, lost in the bandage on one side. Jaime’s chest inexplicably tightened at the sight. _Who could have guessed the wench knew how to smile so?_

As Brienne set herself to tending to Podrick, Jaime sat against the cave wall, his eyes trained on the pink horizon, half-hidden beneath skies darkened with the promise of snow. One part of him knew that he should be angry. It was only through the extreme misfortune of his aunt and cousin—and the gods only knew who else—that they had missed that merriest band of butchers. His family was completely unaware of what was coming for them.

He thought of his son, the sweet little king; his daughter, whose safety he could not be sure of; his sister, imprisoned, perhaps already dead; his brother, lost. He should go to them, he knew—go defend his family at Riverrun, or in King’s Landing—trade his life for their safety. It was what he would have done were he half the knight Brienne of Tarth seemed to think he was. Hyle’s words came back to him, though he was not certain yet what exactly they meant, and they only brought a frown to his face. _She would have died… for you_.

Before long, Podrick was asleep with his head pillowed in Brienne’s lap, where she was leaned against the wall an arm’s length from Jaime. The boy’s breathing had eased some, his exhalations coming out in faint wheezes, but at least they were coming at all. Jaime studied her for a long moment—a large, freckled puzzle he could not quite decipher.

He wanted to ask why they were there; what her plan had been; why Hyle thought she would have died for him, an impossible notion. _There’s no one would trade their own neck for the Kingslayer, not since Tyrion_. His thoughts were close to darkening further, when his attention was captured.

_She’s humming a tune_.

Looking over his right shoulder at her, he could see that Brienne’s eyes were wet with tears still, and she continued to run her fingers across his brow, but her face had softened. If the orange lamplight had only served to highlight Podrick’s ill health, it had the opposite effect on Brienne. He noticed for the first time that here, her milky skin seemed to have taken on the rich, warm hues of mild spring honey. As the odd tightening of his chest returned to nag at him again, Jaime found that he could not look away.

And then she was singing.

“_Oh, have you seen my boy, good ser_?”

Jaime was not entirely aware of the parting of his lips, turning upward at the corners in the slightest hint of a smile. It was a song he knew, he realized; a lament. But her voice was pure and charming, her fingers in the boy’s hair gentle and maternal. He had seen it in the Maid of Tarth before, this softness. But never like this. He did not think he knew she _could_ be like this.

“_His hair is chestnut brown._ _He’d promised he’d come back to me_. _Our home’s in Wendish Town_.”

Brienne was frowning down at Podrick, tears silently escaping her eyes to roll down her cheeks, nestling between her overly plump lips. And in a sudden, intense flood of selfish desire, Jaime wondered if perhaps they tasted as sweet as they appeared in the flickering lamplight. And then Jaime knew that he was lost.

Pushing entirely past his doubts, his anger, his frustration—Jaime rolled upwards to crouch on a knee in front of her, next to the sleeping boy’s shoulder, so that their eyes were level. But she would not look up. He thought of her genuine, palpable misery upon learning of Catelyn Stark’s death. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Even then he had wanted to go to her, to ease her pain, and now he found that he did not know why he had not. He certainly had been a fool. _Not this time, not now_.

He reached out a thumb to catch a falling tear, and at his touch she choked out a sob. “Wench,” he whispered huskily, “you sing well.”

Jaime thought that her faint huff in response sounded a bit like a laugh. Encouraged, he dropped his hand beneath her jaw, applying just enough upward pressure for her to meet his eyes at last. And despite the vortex of chaos they would very soon have to find their way out of, Jaime smiled—wide and warm and sincere.

He admired the blush that crept up her neck, so deep it threatened to overtake her rounded blue eyes as he probed them for answers to a question he was not asking with words. Although he could see a healthy dose of uncertainty there, he was surprised to find no rebuff for the intimacy of his touch. He had no idea how he would be received and was certain that he did not deserve her acceptance. Still, he angled his bearded face toward her and slid his fingers down to cradle her chin, pulling their lips together gently. She didn’t return the movement of his mouth on hers for several horrifying seconds, but when she finally parted her lips to him, Jaime was pleased to discover that she tasted even sweeter than he had imagined.

When he pulled back, he regarded her with a questioning smile. She dropped her gaze, but he could see she was smiling down at her hands. Pleased with himself for the moment, he sat back against the wall closer to her this time. After a few minutes, her weary head came to rest upon his shoulder, and for the briefest interlude, the three occupants of the darkening cave were at peace.

When Jaime’s chest tightened at the warmth of her head on his shoulder, it no longer felt peculiar. Only good, and right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pod's song is "On a Misty Morn" and it comes from _A Feast for Crows_.


	2. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the height of the Long Night, Brienne has a song for the man she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is not beta read. I apologize for any errors and other such nonsense.

The Stormlands had never been so cold. Even with frigid winds from the sea, even from the tallest peak in the dead of winter, Brienne had never truly understood the many ways in which the cold could dig itself into a person’s bones, attacking joints and blood vessels without mercy. Of all the adversaries she had faced, the North was the first she could not defeat.

Even armed with a thick woolen cap, several clinging layers beneath her armor, thickly sewn socks, fur-lined leather gloves, and the small firepit she huddled in front of, Brienne could not find warmth or comfort. She had made attempts to convince herself that it was for the better, since it was her turn for guard duty at the topmost tower of Winterfell, and whoever her partner would be had not yet arrived. The cold, at least, kept her sharp.

Winterfell and its people, though, seemed made for the brutality of the temperatures. Snow stood several feet high as far as she could see, and men worked in regular shifts to keep walkways clear. In daylight, the sight might have been charming: sparkling white for miles, the winter town bustling with activity, the wolfswood half-hidden beneath the weight of the snow. Instead, darkness had fallen one night, the sun had never returned, and their lives had become tales of horror.

At the sound of boots falling on the stone steps behind her, Brienne turned from where she had been leaning over the bulwark. She expected to find one of her usual partners—Ser Davos Seaworth and his kind eyes, or Asha Greyjoy and her knowing smirks.

She did not expect to see Jaime Lannister.

He came to a stop at the top of the stairs, his eyes narrowed pensively in her direction. The smoke from the fire separated them, burning her eyes as much as the cold she cannot seem to shake. Jaime was just as swaddled as she was. Except for the glowing fire, the night was as dark as ever, but she could still make out the slow and heavy rise and fall of his chest.

He lingered at the top step, his hand resting upon the pommel of the sword he had come north from Casterly Rock with. His green eyes seemed to burn into her, alighting a flame inside her belly that at last seemed to banish the cold from her from the inside out.

Only when she dropped her gaze from his did he move again, leaning against the parapet near her and heaving a sigh.

They had gone their separate ways after all the carnage they had tried and failed to prevent at Riverrun. Jaime had been intent on saving the son that Cersei had stolen away to their ancestral home. Aegon the Pretender, as the tenants of Winterfell had taken to calling the alleged Targaryen prince of late, had arrived in King’s Landing with plans to rid the kingdom of every one of the usurper’s dogs. Jaime had not needed to tell her that the golden little Baratheon king would top the list, whether the Pretender would publicly admit to such or not.

Privately, Brienne had thought that Queen Cersei had had the right of it—fleeing before any harm could come to her child. She had not been successful. Nor had Jaime. Tommen never made it to Casterly Rock, but Cersei had.

The white palfrey Jaime had ridden upon to Winterfell’s gates had been camouflaged by the snow, but Brienne had marveled at the way the red and gold of the Lannister host he had brought with him seemed almost too bright against the monochromatic backdrop. She and everyone around them had suffered much, and the last-minute reinforcements had been like a blessing from the gods.

Even in what should have been his triumph—when the sons and daughters of so many great Houses that had once crossed swords with House Lannister clapped his shoulder and thanked him—the downward shift in Jaime’s demeanor was evident to Brienne. He had seemed older, shadows of grief haunting the corners of his eyes and mouth. She wondered how long ago that had been. Months now, surely, if there had been any way to count the turns of the moon. She had been remarkably successful in avoiding their recent history, however long it had been.

He had kissed her, all that long time ago in the dim light of the cave. He had kissed her, and she had let him, and even now she could not puzzle out what any of it had meant. All she knew was that she had been terrified for Podrick, and the feel of Jaime’s lips on her own had been like a buoy in treacherous waters. She had clung to him that night like a drowning sailor.

_No man will want me in the light of day._ He had treated her kindly. He had soothed her pain. He had eased her anxiety. And then he did not touch her again.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jaime said airily, pulling Brienne from her reverie. He did not look at her, eyes trained on his sword as he smoothed a gloved fingertip across the pommel.

“I have not,” she countered, almost convincing even herself.

“You have.”

“You haven’t even _been here_ long enough to avoid.”

“I’ve been here for weeks, at least. You’ll fight alongside me, but you won’t even look at me.”

She jutted her chin out defiantly, staring at him until he brought his eyes up to meet her own. He flashed her a cutting smile, crossing one boot over the other where he leaned. Even at the frigid end of the world and beneath several layers of clothing, Brienne could not help noticing the casual grace his body seemed to always project.

“We’re in the middle of a war,” she reminded him plainly.

Jaime shrugged. “All the more reason to spend time with your _friends_. Besides,” he carried on before Brienne could open her mouth to argue, “our trusty expert wight-slayers in the war room have been saying we might be at the end. How many sleeps has it been since you’ve seen an Other? Three? Four?”

“Mayhaps…” She sighed. “Do you believe that, Jaime? That we’ve won?”

“No,” he said solemnly. Jaime considered her with a thoughtful expression. “What do _you_ think, Brienne?”

She frowned. _Why would a man such as Jaime Lannister care about my opinion_? “The tales of the last Long Night told of the Great Other. I’ve witnessed much I might name terrible and gruesome… unforgettable. But nothing ‘great.’”

“Nor have I, but far be it from the likes of Jon Snow or Stannis Baratheon to listen to anything _the Kingslayer_ might suggest.”

He straightened to his full height, and his impossibly handsome face spread into a rueful smile. “You know, I think you and I may survive yet again, wench.”

Brienne had long since given up correcting his obnoxious, insulting names for her, and only sighed with resignation. “I’m not so sure. We have plenty enough time to die still, I think.”

Jaime laughed, his breath hovering in the air around his woolen cap and green eyes glinting pleasantly in the firelight. Then, after a moment, “Brienne, I believe you may be my good luck charm.”

She scoffed audibly. “I’ve done nothing but endanger you from the moment we met.” Her voice cracked, and she felt heat creep into her cheeks along with it.

He took a step toward her, still smiling, a curious glow shining from his eyes. _He has such lovely eyes_. She quickly ducked her head away from his face at the intrusive thought, her face now positively burning as though she had spoken the words aloud.

“I would be dead five times over if not for you.” The laughter was gone from his voice as soon as it had arrived. He was standing so maddeningly close she could feel the heat radiating from him even through his armor.

But when she hesitantly looked up, he was already grinning again, more warmly than she could ever remember seeing him before.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“I think you know.”

“I truly _do not_.”

“We may survive this,” he repeated, “and if by some happy mistake the gods allow us both to leave this frozen hellscape alive, I think we should be wed.”

Brienne stared at him for what felt like an eternity, her mouth slightly ajar with disbelief. His face was deadly serious now. She did not want to believe that he had intended to hurt her, but she could not stop the pain she felt at such a poorly-timed jape.

The conflict of thoughts and emotions, coupled with the strangeness she had borne witness to in recent months finally crashing down into reality, sent Brienne into a sudden gale of laughter. She laughed louder than was likely wise while on watch, and she was acutely aware of how completely unstable se must have seemed. But there was no stopping it.

Jaime took a step back from her. “You seem to find my proposal quite humorous.” His voice was as icy as the night air between them. “A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”

She laughed harder at that, feeling as though a dam had given way inside of her. She leaned into the relief of the tension of the past several months—since Stoneheart and Riverrun and the horrors she had faced at Winterfell; since Jaime Lannister had kissed her and completely confused every thought she had had since. She laughed until her eyes began to mist with tears that she feared might freeze onto her face.

When she finally looked up, Jaime was smiling at her with endearing uncertainty. When she met his eyes, he began to chuckle as well, until they both were laughing, his hand resting on her shoulder for support.

“This war,” she breathed after a while, “has sent us all into madness, Ser Jaime.”

~

If Brienne had not been intentionally avoiding the newly-titled Lord Lannister before, she certainly was now. Since his bizarre conversation with her while on watch, she seemed to find golden locks streaming her way around every corner; green eyes piercing their way to her own across every room she entered; the flash of rubies from the hilt of every sword next to her on the ever-shrinking battlefield. Brienne would glare and turn away, reminding herself that she had no time or patience for any further jokes at her expense.

_What if he wasn’t joking_? The thought occasionally bubbled to the surface of her thoughts, leaving her feeling like a helpless maid, drunk on the thought of something she would never have. Usually the idea came to her as she huddled under her meager furs for a few hours of sleep, thinking of so many others around them who shared their bed with another. _For warmth_, they would say. _For comfort_, Brienne was not too innocent to understand.

Without exception, she would push the thoughts away as soon as they came to her; she had not been so naive in years. Not even Jaime could make her forget who she was, and how far she had come from the girl who had left Tarth to follow Renly Baratheon.

The thought nagged at her once again while breaking her fast in the Great Hall. Jaime was laughing with Ser Addam Marbrand near the tall doors to the courtyard, each man readying himself to march out to face the reanimated dead. Ser Addam bore a fresh wound across the length of his angular face, one eye still swollen shut. Brienne thought it might have been tragic had it not been for the many, many men who were no longer alive to mourn the loss of their good looks.

This time, Jaime had caught her eye and winked, grinning wickedly while Ser Addam carried on with what he had been saying.

Brienne snapped her attention to her trencher, but it was too late. He was already upon her before she could think to stand and leave.

“Lady Brienne,” he purred. “You have been neglecting our friendship yet again.”

“Lord Jaime,” she replied tersely, resolutely meeting his laughing gaze with a scowl.

He sat down backwards on the bench to better face her, signaling with his golden hand for Addam Marbrand to give him a moment.

“I’m going off to battle, you know.”

“There’s hardly anything left to fight.”

“And yet we’ve still lost good men in recent skirmishes.”

“I have every confidence that you will make it back.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm, but she suspected that she meant her words. _You and I may survive yet again_.

He studied her, his face somber. She wondered what it was he thought of when he looked at her that way.

“In every tourney I have ever participated in, some tittering maiden or another has given me her favor. It’s curious, wouldn’t you say, that as we walk to our deaths, there’s never a ribbon to spare?”

Brienne furrowed her brow, uncertain. She opened her mouth to reply, but found she did not know what to say to him, and closed it again with a frown.

Jaime smiled, his face softer than it had been in months. “Would you save a place for me next to you at dinner if I promise to be on my best behavior?” He lowered his voice, leaning toward her. “Or not to steal anymore kisses?”

She blushed crimson, but against her better judgment, Brienne found it was easier to smile with him at the memory of the way he had held her than she had thought it might be. “Alright.”

Jaime grinned wide and bright in the firelight, stood, and abruptly pressed a quick kiss to her head in full view of everyone in the hall. She glared up at how pleased with himself he appeared to be.

“Until dinner, my lady.”

As misfortune would have it, Brienne would see him well before dinner.

It was her turn at kitchen duty, a system designed to provide relief for both the regular cooks and for the fighters’ aching bodies. It was not quite rest, but it was as close as they could manage. As usual, she had given Oathkeeper to Asha Greyjoy when they had traded places, Valyrian steel always the preferred companion outside the walls of the castle.

Brienne had heard the commotion outside from her position above a pot of water flavored with the few vegetables Winterfell had left in the store rooms. There was not much she could do without her sword, and food was in constant demand, so she held her post.

She halted in her duties only when Podrick Payne stuck his head in the door and said, as loudly as he could manage, “My lady! Ser! You should come.”

Brienne wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her tunic and breeches, glancing around at the other occupants of the kitchen, noticing their subdued but curious glances.

“Pod? What’s the matter?”

“They’re loading them into the hall. You should come,” he repeated.

Brienne’s heart sank as she removed the apron with the feeling that she knew what was coming. She followed Pod out of the kitchen, dazed.

_He’s dead. He’s dead and he never found his honor._ Her stomach churned. _He was going to his death and all he wanted was a lady’s favor… _My _favor_. There was no denying it now. As she walked behind Podrick with feet like lead, she wondered when her feelings had changed toward him. When his own had changed; had he not loved his sister? And yet… He had left Cersei, had banished her from Casterly Rock, though she had not known why, only that King Tommen’s death had been the catalyst. _I failed him_.

Podrick brought her to a table where a limp form was lying atop the very table she had sat at only hours before—waving away his jests of dying in battle, consenting to sup with him, thinking of the feel of his mouth on her own…

And now…

She was not aware of climbing onto the table, all she knew was that his head was in her lap, and when she tore his gilded breastplate from his body, his heart beat sweetly beneath her hand. But his eyes—_his lovely, stupid, laughing eyes_—would not open.

“_Jaime_,” she breathed. She was not certain whether her tears came from the relief that he still lived, the shock of seeing him unconscious, or the sudden punch of feelings she had not truly realized she harbored for the man in her arms.

The room was a whirlwind of people around her, blurs of red cloaks and chrome armor and women in skirts carrying poultices and bandages. She saw none of it. Men shouted commands, proclaiming the Great Other had come again and every man was needed, _now_. She heard none of it. The scream of a dragon pierced the skies, followed by two others, and the castle seemed to stand perfectly still for the briefest second. She did not notice it.

Her tears fell as she rocked him. Here in her home, at a table where she once laughed with her husband and helped her children learn to hold a fork and knife, Brienne recalled Lady Catelyn asking if she had ever sung to Renly Baratheon or her father. She remembered thinking how she had wanted to, how she should have.

“_I have been in heavy grief, for a knight who once was mine_,” she sang, not caring who heard, though few heads turned her way.

“_And I want it forever known, that I loved him too much_.”

She smoothed stray hair from his brow, smiling when he stirred.

“Wench,” he grumbled, his eyes fluttering open. Even glassy and hurt, they seemed to dive into parts of her no one else could see. “I was unconscious, not dead. Do you require instruction on finding a heartbeat?”

Brienne could only chuckle, so glad she was to hear his voice, no matter what he said.

Jaime shifted clumsily to a sitting position, blearily taking in the new commotion. Then he turned to her, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I believe I like to hear your songs. When we are wed, you must sing more often.”

With a sharp intake of air, she puffed out her chest and nodded. “I should like that,” she swore, and without warning, she leaned across the table to kiss him.

In the midst of the chaos around them, one arm around his waist and the other tangled in his hair, Jaime clung to her like a drowning man to a raft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Brienne sings is an adaptation of the medieval song known as _I have been heavy with grief_, written by La Comtessa Beatriz de Dia. You can read the poem in its entirety [here](https://offcenternoteven.com/tag/la-comtessa-de-dia/) and learn more about the comtessa [here](https://coloraturaconsulting.com/2014/09/01/composer-biography-comtessa-beatriz-de-dia-c1140-c1200/).
> 
> I hope you're enjoying this! One more chapter, and it will be the happiest, fluffiest one yet. Promise.


	3. Joanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne sings for their firstborn, and Jaime’s heart won’t stop melting. Mind the rating change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y’all like a soft Jaime, because this is… a very soft Jaime.

When the raven landed at Sarsfield, Jaime was sitting before the hearth in the finest guest chambers the modest castle had on offer. His long legs were stretched out and crossed in front of him, his head bowed pensively, and the fire casting dancing shadows along the angles of his face. The hour was late and the castle still, but the Lord of Casterly Rock had found sleep increasingly difficult as each night passed in an unfamiliar bed.

His thoughts rested with the business that had brought him out of his relative isolation atop the Rock: the revolts near Wendish Town, which should have been settled by the newly-restored Tullys of Riverrun. Lord Edmure had been unable to quell the rioters, and to Jaime’s immense surprise, he had sought his guidance and assistance. Upon learning that men from the Golden Tooth had taken part in continuing the disturbances in the riverlands, Jaime had seen little choice but to ride out with a show of force. It had been odd to command alongside his former hostage, but the diplomacy Lord Edmure had displayed for the sake of his lands and people had sparked a grudging respect in Jaime. Still, there were other places he had wished to be—one place in particular.

Jaime stood, his joints stiff and sore from the prolonged sit. Running his hand through his hair, he stared into the fire. Casterly Rock was still several days’ ride from Sarsfield. It would not be worth the worry to allow his thoughts to drift home just yet. There was nothing he could do from his position, and he would have to trust in the maester he had left behind.

Before riding out on the River Road, Jaime had threatened the old man in no uncertain terms that should anything—_anything_—go awry with Brienne, he would have his head on a spike at the gates of the Citadel. He had summoned every ounce of Tywin Lannister in his blood when he had warned the maester that his head would serve to remind each arriving green boy to the Citadel how seriously he should be taking his scholarly endeavors. And then he had clapped him on the shoulder and asked him cheerily to please stay in touch.

Jaime was pacing now and had to physically grasp the edge of the mantle to force himself to stop. _All will be well. She’s strong enough_.

He was readying himself for bed, at last feeling the welcome warmth of exhaustion beginning to wash over him, when there came an urgent knock upon the door of his room.

His head snapped up, a little relieved that the act of removing his tunic took so long with the one hand.

When Jaime swung the door open, it was to the face of the lord of Sarsfield himself, dressed in his night clothes and a cloak donned in evident haste. His eyes were wide and gray hair wild.

“Lord Lannister!” he exclaimed. “There has been a raven in the night… From Casterly Rock.”

Jaime’s breath hitched momentarily before he glanced down to the parchment in Lord Sarsfield’s liver-spotted hand. With no concern for politeness, he snatched the letter and took it to read himself.

_Lord Jaime,_

_Your lady wife has birthed a girl child, only a fortnight earlier than we had assumed, on this 20th day of the 5th month in the year 302. A true Summer blessing from the gods._

_Mother and babe are both well. As such, I would be greatly humbled if you would be so kind as to leave my head upon my shoulders._

_There is no urgency to return. All is well. Congratulations._

_Ever your servant,  
_ _Maester Creylen_

Jaime read and re-read the letter in silence while Lord Sarsfield looked on anxiously.

“Is… is all well, my lord?”

“Well? Yes. All is well, Sarsfield.” There was nothing he could do to prevent the small smile that crept across his lips, tugging at the corners of his eyes. “The Lady Lannister has given me a daughter.”

“Why, that _is_ wonderful news! I had feared… Dark wings, dark words. But we must toast! Would you object to Arbor Gold, my lord?”

Jaime’s grin grew without his permission. “I’m afraid I must decline your offer just now. We must ride out earlier than planned. I have missed enough already.”

When the door was safely shut behind him, Jaime made his way to bed, stripping off the last of the day’s clothing as he went. The letter from the maester was carefully nestled on the table next to his head and he sprawled carelessly on the furs.

_A daughter. A true Lannister child I will hold and call my own until the day I die._

The thought made his chest feel too small, emotion flooding him in a way he had not anticipated. Not even in those moments when Brienne would suddenly take hold of his wrist and place his hand upon her swollen belly, and he had felt like he might burst into tears at the feel of the babe within making its presence known with sturdy kicks. Though a father thrice before, he had never been allowed such intimate moments and had fought every twinge of desire to experience them he had ever had. All of it was as new.

He had known there would be a child from the moment she had been conceived. Jaime had taken his new bride—and she him—more than enough to bring about an heir by then, but there was something different about that stolen hour. The drapes had been open, rays of warm spring sun drifting across the sea and into her bed chamber. He had pressed his lips against every inch of her, coaxing his lady wife to climax after climax with his fingers and tongue. His movements against her had been languid and steady, as though they were not holding up dinner for the rest of the castle with their absence.

Brienne had never before let him take his time with her in the naked light of day as she had then, the beginning of something new. He had eventually thrust himself into her with an easy pace he had savored too much to give over to orgasm. But when Jaime had finally fallen apart deep within her, she had come with him, her nails digging into his back and legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Their eyes had locked, their breathing had synced, and one another’s names had been a song on their lips.

Jaime had held her against his chest for a long while afterward, another small newness he had yet to become accustomed to. And he had _known_. If children were made from anything, surely it was from the sort of declaration of love they had given one another that day.

He had told her as much even then.

“I hope you’re prepared,” he had murmured into her hair, a leg draped lazily across her hip and fingertips tracing patterns along her spine.

She had been curled into him, but drew back her face to look at him, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Any child of ours is bound to be strong as an auroch and stubborn as a mule. _I suspect_ we’ll have nine turns of the moon to ready ourselves. Gods help us if that isn’t enough time.”

She had frowned up at him. “Don’t jest, Jaime,” she had whispered. “We don’t even know if—”

“_I know_,” he had retorted firmly, making sure to convey as much intensity with his eyes as he could manage. He had just been beginning to realize the effect such a look had on his Lady Brienne.

She had smiled, a little sadly, as though she had not truly believed him. “We shall see.”

Enveloped in pleasant memories and hope for the future, Jaime gradually fell asleep in the guest room at Sarsfield castle. Draped atop the furs with the fireplace crackling, fervid dreams of creating more sons and daughters dominating his exhausted, thrilled mind.

~

The late spring sun still clung to the horizon across the sea, casting the waters behind Casterly Rock in pink, scarlet, and orange. It had only been a single turn of the moon, but the sight of it made Jaime’s stomach swoop with emotion. _Home_, as he had never truly felt the Rock had been before.

He was met at the gates by the old maester, Creylen, and Podrick Payne, not long now from making a knight of himself in the service of House Lannister. It had been much to Brienne’s surprise when Jaime had knighted his betrothed in front of gods and men just before they had spoken their marital vows. Her squire’s knighthood would be her own undertaking.

“Pod. Creylen,” he greeted them before slipping gracefully from the saddle of his palfrey. “How is _my lady ser_? The babe?”

Creylen chuckled. “Your family is safe and healthy, my lord. If you would clean the dust of travel from your face and hands, the lady awaits.”

_My family_.

“If only to serve as proof to retain your head, maester?” Jaime shot him a very serious look, handing his horse's reins to Podrick.

As usual, the old maester was unphased. “I was never worried.” Though it often annoyed him, Jaime appreciated the maester’s occasional, small defiance. He was never much intimidated by his lord’s station. He needed such honest men.

Jaime was not certain when his lord father’s chambers had stopped feeling foreign and began feeling like his own. He had had the room completely redecorated, removing uncomfortable furniture and portraits of long-dead Lannisters. He had left the one of his mother as a young woman, only moving her from over the mantle to a place centered on the far wall, overlooking the sea. The matron who still saw to the lady’s chambers had confided in him that his mother had loved the sea in life. It seemed fitting.

Brienne’s softly smiling face now held the mantle in Joanna Lannister’s place. Jaime privately thought the painter had been trying to flatter his lord and lady by making her face slightly more symmetrical than it truly was. But he had gotten her eyes right: long-lashed, wide and guileless as ever, and as blue as the bays of the island she hailed from. On the rare nights they did not share a bed, Jaime would nevertheless slip into sleep under Brienne’s calm, warm gaze.

Presently, he changed from his riding clothes and into a satin crimson doublet with as much expediency as a one-handed man could muster. In the basin at one end of the room he washed his face and shaved off the whiskers he had let grow during his travel.

Feeling appropriately prepared—and a bit more jittery than the Lion of Lannister had ever been accustomed to before his taming—he made his way to Brienne’s chambers.

The door was already ajar. Jaime could hear his favorite sound in all the world emanating from within. It was the very sound that had awakened him to the love he had developed so gradually that he had hardly noticed it until it was upon him in full force. He hesitated, loathe to interrupt the moment.

“_Close your eyes, love of my heart. My own in the world and my own to love. Close your eyes, love of my heart. And you’ll have a present tomorrow. Your papa is coming quickly from the hill, with a heather hen in his hands. Sleep softly, my darling, my own. And you’ll have a present tomorrow._”

When her words had faded into a gentle hum and he thought he might fall apart at the seams if he didn’t see her soon, he nudged the door open.

Brienne looked up at him, her smile wider and freckled face happier than anything Jaime had ever witnessed from his lady knight. He noticed that she did not blush at his intrusion on her private, intimate moment. She trusted him with these moments now, he realized. There was nothing for it but to become more creative in his efforts to get a rise out of her. But such scheming would have to wait for another time.

“I wondered how long you would stand outside the door.” She dropped her gaze from him and to the swaddled bundle in her arms.

“You knew I was here the whole time?” He attempted to sound mockingly serious and accusing, but the grin on his face would not be contained. He knew he must look a fool, but he did not care.

“Your footsteps are as heavy as a mammoth’s.” She peered up at him and again he was struck by the joy she radiated, how her face seemed to glow, and how nothing about her appearance could mar her elation. “Close the door, Jaime, and come here.”

He did as he was bid, making a seat for himself on the bed as close to her as possible. He couldn’t look quite yet, and so only held his wife’s eyes for a moment, both smiling the smile of the obscenely happy. It was not an expression Jaime had ever worn before, nor had he ever really expected to.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, their babe tucked between their chests. His hand cupped Brienne’s cheek, and when he broke away, he brought his forehead to hers. “You were made for motherhood, wench. I can’t believe I was worried.”

She ducked her head with a small smile, still not completely able to accept a compliment for either her womanhood or her motherhood. “Creylen said you threatened to behead him.”

He nodded, managing a more solemn effect this time. “So I did. I am as glad as he is that it didn’t come to that.”

Brienne’s eyes moved to the stirring bundle between them, and Jaime allowed himself to follow her gaze for the first time.

His heart leapt at the sight of her, pink and downy-haired and _theirs, all theirs_. “May I?” he rasped.

“She’s _your_ daughter.”

Brienne’s tone was lightly sarcastic, but he had no doubt that she knew what this moment meant to him. The children he had lost, those three babes he had never been granted access to… And then this one, who required no permissions from anyone for him to dote upon.

Jaime carefully lifted the child into the crook of his arm, only slightly more difficult a task without two hands. His daughter wiggled at the disturbance, her eyes fluttering open with a scowl that captured Jaime’s entire heart in an instant.

“She has your eyes,” Brienne said, almost sing-song.

Jaime frowned. “I had hoped she might have _yours_.”

“I hadn’t. You have lovely eyes, Jaime.” She turned a pale shade of pink at that, and Jaime flashed her a smug grin. _Victory_.

“As long as you’re happy,” he chuckled.

Brienne was silent for several moments, though it escaped Jaime’s notice while he was too enraptured by the week-old fist attempting to bring his finger to her tiny mouth. When she was finally successful, his head snapped up to Brienne enthusiastically, making sure she had witnessed the girl’s achievement.

He cocked his head to the side at the anxious expression on her face. “How can you possibly look so glum?”

She frowned. “I’m not _glum_. It’s only… I know these things matter to men… I’m sorry she wasn’t a boy.” Her voice had reverted to that of a quiet, uncertain maid.

_Ever the same silly wench, even two years wed._

“Brienne,” he intoned patiently, “I don’t know who fills your head with such utter nonsense. I am not ‘men,’ I am one man. Jaime Lannister, the man you married. And _I_ say boys are of no use—_aren’t I proof enough of that?_” He had lowered his voice to a purr and leaned toward her slightly, grinning, but quickly straightened again. “She’s perfect. Don’t ever make apologies for our daughter again.”

Tears swam in her eyes, and his heart sank. “Oh, don’t. A woman as loved as you would look ridiculous crying so.” He pressed a kiss to her temple.

When Brienne had relaxed again, Jaime caught her eye and smiled. “So, does this cub have a name, my lady?”

Her eyes widened comically at the realization that she had not brought up such an important fact earlier.

They had discussed names before he had left. Brienne had wanted an obvious Lannister name: Tywin or Cerelle or Genna—something their child could wield proudly like a blade against anyone who might dare criticize them for their House name. Jaime had been less than enthused by the notion.

“They shouldn’t be ashamed of who they are and where they come from. The name ‘Lannister’ doesn’t mean what it once did. You see to that,” she had said, her face a serious arrangement of harsh lines he knew there was no winning against.

“Aye,” he had said anyway, “mayhap to you. Mayhap to a few others, even. But not all of Westeros is ready to kiss my feet.”

Across from him now, with their daughter very real and between them, Brienne’s spine seemed to straighten as if in defiance.

“Joanna. For your mother.”

He nodded slowly, smoothing the crease between shining green eyes with the pad of his thumb. “Joanna.”

Jaime met Brienne’s eyes, holding them in place intently. “Thank you, my love. You always are right in the end, aren’t you?”

She smiled in answer, easing back onto her palms to watch the pair of them together.

Jaime lifted the babe to his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek against the crown of her fuzzy head. “Joanna,” he said again, a whisper. “When you’re older, we’ll teach you to sail, and to fight, and to dance like a proper little lady. And your mother will teach you to sing so that maybe one day some unworthy, unsuspecting knight may fall in love with you too. And I swear, little love, if there’s ever an oath I keep for the rest of my life, I’ll look after you.” He looked up, seeking Brienne's face with a warm smile, tears suddenly in his own eyes. “Both of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joanna's song is adapted from a traditional Celtic lullaby, _Dún do Shúile (Close Your Eyes)_.
> 
> We're at the end. Thank you for hanging in there; I know I took a while between updates. Real life has been hectic, to say the very least. Although I've had mixed feelings during the process, I'm so glad I wrote this, and I hope that you all have enjoyed it! It was a blast getting to know these characters this way, and I'm stoked to move on to my next JB project! I'll post updates over [on my tumblr](https://pretty--thief.tumblr.com) if anyone is interested. :-)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for your kind, motivational words along the way. They are always so appreciated.


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